


Weeds and Flowers

by Mithen



Series: Gardens of Wayne Manor [2]
Category: DCU - Comicverse
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Childhood Friends, M/M, Pre-Capes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-19
Updated: 2010-11-18
Packaged: 2017-11-15 19:03:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/530635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mithen/pseuds/Mithen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce and Clark meet again years after their painful separation, and rekindle their old friendship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Meeting and Greeting

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [野草与花](https://archiveofourown.org/works/594737) by [Lynx219](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lynx219/pseuds/Lynx219)



_June_

_"Kent!_

Perry White's bellow made heads turn all over the bullpen. A few people cast Clark sympathetic looks as he hurried past their desks; others smirked slightly, glad they weren't going to be the ones to get the rough edge of a White tongue-lashing.

Clark swung the office door open and peered inside, blinking. "Something I can do for you, sir?"

White looked up from his papers, the unlit cigar clenched between his teeth jutting ferociously. "There you are, Kent. Carl Kent, right?" He glared down at the papers again as if the answer might be there.

"Uh, Clark, sir."

"Whatever, Kent. Gotta job for you."

"Really?" Clark felt himself brightening; he leaned forward, ready to receive his instructions and spring into action.

"Yeah. I ordered a hoagie from Luigi's an hour ago and it hasn't come. Run and check on it, would you?"

"Uh...sure, Mr. White," Clark said, trying not to sag in disappointment.

"And hurry it up, I hate when the bread gets soggy," Perry growled, his attention clearly turned somewhere more important.

The door clicked quietly shut behind him and Clark hurried back through the bullpen, through the sound of rattling keys and rustling paper and animated conversations, to the wide double-doors leading to the street. As he left the building, Clark took a moment to surreptitiously touch the fading gilt letters stenciled on the glass: _The Gotham Gazette._

Clark Kent went out into the rain-soaked streets of Gotham, darting across the street to Luigi's. It wouldn't do to mess up the first assignment of his summer internship, with high school just around the corner and so much still to learn.

**: : :**

It was still pouring when Clark got home; he was almost relieved because it meant he wouldn't have to weed the kitchen garden. _To Kill a Mockingbird_ beckoned from his coverlet, and he eagerly plunged back into Maycomb to hide in the balcony with Scout and listen to Atticus Finch address the jury. He put down the book to blow his nose some time later--not that he was crying--and heard his mother come in, shaking water off her raincoat. He wandered into the kitchen to find her tenderly placing a potted azalea on the kitchen table. She looked up, rain still in her gray-threaded hair. "How was your first day at the paper?"

"It was pretty cool," Clark said, getting the sugar out of cupboard as Martha poured herself a cup of coffee. "It's an exciting place. I wish I could write something, but I don't think Mr. White is going to notice me more than to have me fetch sandwiches."

Martha stirred her coffee and blew across the surface. "Well, even Ernest Hemingway had to start somewhere."

"Ma, I want to be a journalist, not a novelist."

Martha rolled her eyes slightly. "Clark, Hemingway started off as a reporter, covering the Spanish Civil War."

"Really?" Clark's had never found the short stories about bullfighting and fishing he'd been assigned in class very interesting, but now his interest was piqued. He scribbled a note to himself: _Look up Hemingway's journalism._ "Anyway, it's interesting to see all the reporters working and talking and arguing. You really feel like stuff is getting done there."

His mother patted his hand. "It sounds lovely. Now, you know I'm going to need that vegetable garden weeded in the morning before you go in to town, if it's not raining."

Clark bit his lip. He'd promised his mother the internship wouldn't interfere with his gardening duties--and besides, his garden work was where he was actually getting some income. But he was going to have to get up around four to get the weeding done before the bike ride to the _Gazette_...

Martha's face softened slightly and she squeezed his hand. "Tell you what. I'll do the south half of the garden in the morning if you promise to get the rest done when you get back."

"I promise, Ma! You're the greatest!"

"And don't you forget it," Martha agreed, letting go of his hand to pick up her mug again.

The doorbell rang, and Clark jumped to answer it. On the doorstep, a black umbrella held centered precisely over his head, was Alfred Pennyworth. He inclined his head at Clark. "May I come in?"

"Sure," Clark said, stepping aside and taking his coat. "My mother's in the kitchen, she--"

"--Actually, Master Clark, it is you I have come to see."

"Oh, Mr. Pennyworth," Martha jumped up as the two of them entered the kitchen. "Let me make you some tea."

"That would be very kind, Mrs. Kent." He looked at the tiny shrub in its pot on the table and reached out to touch one brilliant pink bloom. "This is exquisite."

He and Clark's mother chatted for a moment about bonsai while Clark tried not to fidget, wondering what Mr. Pennyworth was here about. The butler took a long, appreciative sip of tea, then cleared his throat. "Master Clark, I'm not sure if you're aware of this, but Master Bruce returned to Wayne Manor slightly more than a week ago."

Clark blinked and looked down to hide his surprise. "I didn't know that." In the six years since Bruce's parents had died, Bruce had only returned home a handful of times, and never for more than a day or two. Alfred went up to see him now and then, but he rarely returned to the Manor. He usually spent Christmases at the boarding school, and even his summer vacations were taken up with various kinds of specialized summer classes at prestigious camps. Clark had only glimpsed him from a distance, a few times over the years: a dark figure, slightly taller each time, one he hadn't tried to approach. "I haven't seen him."

"He has...not left his room often," Alfred said. "He keeps the blinds drawn. He seems..." He paused, seeming to consider and discard words, and finally said, "...discouraged."

"So?"

" _Clark,_ " his mother said swiftly, putting a hand out, but Clark set his jaw.

"What do you want _me_ to do about it? He doesn't care what I think. Ask one of his pals from Milton to come cheer him up."

"He doesn't--" Alfred broke off and sighed. "I know it has been quite some time, but I believe Master Bruce does care what you think."

Clark swallowed. "Maybe I don't care what _he_ thinks."

Alfred's gaze sharpened; when he spoke, his voice had an edge. "Master Clark. Bruce was your friend. He is in pain. I believe--I fervently _hope_ \--that you are not the kind of person to turn your back on a soul in pain."

Clark glared stubbornly at the wood grain of the table, and after a time Alfred sighed again, thanked Martha for the tea, and made his way out of the bungalow.

Martha came back from seeing him out and stood in the kitchen door; Clark could feel the weight of her gaze upon him. "I don't owe him anything," he muttered, sounding petty and small even to himself.

"Clark--"

"I don't owe him _anything,_ " Clark repeated.

**: : :**

_"Kill the beast! Cut his throat! Spill his blood!"_

Bruce dimly heard the tapping on his door, but he was far too rapt to respond until he finished the passage. Taking a long, shaking breath, he put the book aside reluctantly. The light tap came again. "Come in," he said to Alfred.

Except that it wasn't Alfred. Bruce blinked in consternation to find a boy his own age standing in the doorway, looking inquiring and a touch sullen at the same time. It took an instant for Bruce to make the connection between the gangling teen in his door and the memory of laughter. "Clark," he said, surprise suddenly cutting through the sense of grayness surrounding him. "What are you doing here?"

Clark's face clouded further. "Mr. Pennyworth told me I should come see you."

"Oh." The brief spark of emotion faded at the realization that this was a chore for Clark, a duty he was discharging to his employer. Clark was staring at him, and Bruce tried to remember the proper conversational rules for seeing old friends. "It's been a long time. How are you doing?"

"Fine. I'm working at the Gotham _Gazette_ right now. I'm an intern."

"That must be nice."

"Well, today was my first day."

"I'm sure you'll do very well." Bruce wanted, with a sharp suddenness that made his eyes ache, to scream or break something, to do anything other than be _polite_ and _conversational_ with Clark. All the ways he had imagined this conversation going over the years, and a stilted conversation out of an etiquette book had never been one of them. Bleakness descended on him like black wings, cutting him off from the room, from the world. He was nothing but a monkey going through the elaborate greeting behaviors of his species, the required shows of deference and harmlessness. He bared his teeth slightly in the primate display of goodwill termed a "smile." "Will you be working there all summer?"

"Yeah." Clark was frowning. He gestured at the book. "What are you reading?"

" _Lord of the Flies,_ " Bruce said, holding up the cover.

"I've never read it."

"It hasn't taught me anything I don't already know," Bruce said, bitterness for a moment breaking through the dull detachment. Clark's frown deepened. There was an awkward silence in which Bruce considered several potentially proper ways to continue or end the conversation, rejecting all of them. What did it matter if Clark thought he was rude, if he failed to give the correct primate signs? Flash your belly, don't show your teeth, keep your hackles down...it was all predators and prey, fight or flight. Bruce was tired of fighting and he didn't know how to fly. So he sat in silence.

Clark had been looking around the room with its stacked boxes as if searching for something to discuss. His eye lit on one long box and his face suddenly flooded with animation, the child Bruce knew shining through the mask of the bored teen. "You've got a Celestron?"

"Alfred gave it to me for Christmas."

Clark lifted the unopened box almost reverently. "I've been saving up my allowance to get a new telescope. But I could never afford a _Celestron_..."

"You can have it if you like."

Instead of gratitude, anger flicked across Clark's face. "I don't need your _charity_ , Bruce." he hissed a breath between his teeth. "What the hell is wrong with you, anyway?"

Bruce looked down at his book, the leafy jungle on the cover. "I got kicked out of Milton."

"What? That's awful!" The anger was gone from Clark's voice, replaced by a quick and ready sympathy that made something in Bruce's chest ache. "Why would they do that? What happened?"

"I guess I just didn't...fit the model of a Milton boy," Bruce said. He didn't really want to talk about it. He wasn't even sure why he'd brought it up.

Silence hung in the room for a moment. Bruce looked down at his book and waited for Clark to throw his hands up and leave.

"I'm not taking the telescope," said Clark. "But I'd like to borrow it Friday night. If you'll come along."

Bruce bit his lip, a dozen polite ways to refuse running through his mind. _I'm so sorry, but I have other engagements. I'm afraid I must decline. Perhaps some other time._

"Okay," he heard himself say. It wasn't even a polite acceptance, it would never be considered proper etiquette.

Clark smiled at him, and Bruce felt for just a moment like maybe there was something beyond forms and rituals and the blood-spattered hierarchies of human power and status.

"Cool," said Clark.


	2. Haunted House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce and Clark go out to watch the stars and find a mystery instead.

Bruce glanced at his watch. It was three-fifty. Clark would still be at his internship. He said he never got out until at least four, maybe later if there was something he was required to do. He could be stuck there until six or seven. Bruce moved the heavy curtains of the library aside and looked at the sky. It was clear and cloudless. He felt something twitching at the corners of his mouth and realized to his surprise it was something like a smile. He frowned to himself and dropped the curtains once more.

He looked at his watch again. Three-fifty-seven.

There was a polite knock at the door and Alfred appeared with a backpack in hand. "As you suggested, sir, I've packed a light dinner for the two of you." Martha Kent had invited Bruce over for supper, but Clark had wanted to get as early a start as possible so they could hike up the bluff and get set up before twilight.

Bruce peered into the backpack. "Did you pack a cream soda for Clark like I said? It's his favorite."

If Alfred was surprised that Bruce remembered Clark's beverage of choice after six years, it didn't show in his expression. "Of course, sir."

"Thanks," Bruce said, and Alfred nodded gravely.

Bruce moved back to the windows, which just happened to overlook the driveway. He looked down the drive, which was empty. "If I may say so, sir," Alfred said behind him, "I'm pleased to see you getting out of the house a little bit."

"Uh huh," said Bruce, looking at his watch. Four-ten. He looked back into the backpack. "Is this sandwich baloney? Clark never liked baloney."

"It is ham, sir."

"Good. Good." Bruce looked out at the gleaming pebbled drive again. "Good."

"I shall leave you to your preparations, sir," said Alfred. For some reason, there was a slight smile in his voice as he faded from the room.

Bruce huffed an exasperated sigh and picked up _Lord of the Flies._ He read a few pages, then glanced at his watch again. Four-twenty. Fidgeting, he changed chairs to one next to the window and picked up the book again, though that island of terror and brutality seemed much less engaging right now.

By sheer coincidence, he happened to be looking down the drive when he saw the tiny figure appear at the gates: Clark on a beat-up bicycle, pedaling furiously. Bruce watched him getting closer, making his way toward the Manor. As Clark tossed the bike down at the door, Bruce grabbed his book and dove for the sofa.

**: : :**

When Alfred showed Clark into the library, Bruce was stretched out on the sofa, reading. "Oh, hi," he said as Clark came in. "Is it..." he glanced at the clock, "...already almost five?"

"Sorry I couldn't get back sooner," Clark said. "I was helping out with an interesting article and couldn't get away." The truth of the matter was that he'd started trying to weasel out of work starting at three, but Perry White had kept piling chores and errands onto him until it was clear he was going to be stuck there until six or so. He had finally managed to cajole another intern into taking over his duties for the evening, with a promise that he'd return the favor next week. Vicki was a classmate of his and he knew he could trust her to cover for him.

"No problem." Bruce handed him a long leather case with a carrying strap. "You carry the telescope, I've got our food here."

Clark hoisted the case almost reverently as Bruce picked up the backpack. A Celestron! It was like the Holy Grail of telescopes.

"Don't stay out too late," Alfred said as they headed out the door. "And be careful walking along the Bluff Road, you know cars tend to go too fast there."

"We'll be careful, Mr. Pennyworth," said Clark.

"Don't worry, Alfred," said Bruce.

Together they walked down the driveway and to the road.

It was a hot day, but the sun was getting low in the sky and the air was cooling a bit. The road wound upward toward the high bluffs overlooking Gotham City and the sea. Soon they'd left the city entirely behind: there were only cottages and old houses, spaced widely apart. There was a breeze off the ocean that tossed the dusty grass by the side of the road; grasshoppers and small snakes leapt and slithered out of their way.

They walked in silence for a while. Clark was worried that Bruce was annoyed or bored, but a quick sidelong glance showed that he looked more preoccupied than anything. Not in a bad way, just like he was taking everything in, analyzing and judging it. _Gotham. Friday. Late afternoon,_ thought Clark. _Two teens set out to view the night sky. Little did they know that casual jaunt would lead to..._

Clark snorted and shook his head; lately he'd taken to narrating his own life like it were a newspaper article. Too much time at the _Gazette_ was leaving him thinking like newsprint.

"Penny for your thoughts," Bruce said. "You laughed," he added when Clark looked at him.

"Oh. I guess I did," said Clark. "I was just thinking about working at the newspaper. I really wish I could get a chance to write a story this summer, but interns never get to do stuff like that."

Bruce kicked a stone down the dirt at the side of the road, caught up with it and kicked it again. "Why do you want to be a reporter?"

"I've been working at my school paper. Nothing big, just little stuff. I guess I like the feeling of putting words together, trying to say things so people understand why they're important. Nothing fancy, just ideas, explained as clear as possible. I did write one story--" He broke off, a little embarrassed, but Bruce nodded at him to continue. "I wrote a story about the gifted and talented program at my school that my teacher used when she was arguing with the school board about cutting funding for the program. She said it made a difference in the vote." Clark couldn't help smiling to himself a little at the memory. "She recommended me to the _Gazette_ because of it."

"Wow." Clark glanced sharply at Bruce, picking apart the syllable for sarcasm or mockery, but Bruce's face was devoid of irony. "That's impressive. You changed things for the better." A shadow crossed his face as Clark watched.

Clark shrugged. "Well, Ms Hamilton was probably just being nice."

"Maybe," Bruce said. "But it's still cool."

"What do you want to do? When you get older?"

The shadow darkened. "I...don't know. I want to make a difference. I studied hard at Milton. I was good at it. But--" He broke off. "I don't know. Books and judo classes don't seem to be enough. And then when I--" He stopped again, stooped to pick up a rock without breaking stride, threw it at a nearby tree with a sharp, almost vicious motion. It _thunked_ off the trunk. "It doesn't matter," he muttered, voice taut with an anger that seemed to be focused inward.

They walked on in silence for a while, Bruce's head down, glowering at something only he could see. He only seemed to notice his surroundings again as they reached the top of the bluff. The ocean shimmered at the base of the cliffs, dotted with silver whitecaps. There was a clear patch of field between the road and the drop-off to the sea. On the other side of the road, facing the ocean, was a ramshackle little house, the shutters hanging askew and weeds choking the driveway.

Bruce looked around as if he'd forgotten where he was. "Oh," he said. "How about we set up here?"

"Here?" Clark cast a glance at the old house. "But that's..." He let the sentence trail off unfinished. The old Cobblepot cottage had been abandoned since Egbert Cobblepot had died years ago without heirs. His nephew had inherited everything, but since no one had been able to track him down, it all was in legal limbo. The Cobblepot patriarch had died in this very cottage, half-mad and raving, and there had been rumors of strange sounds and unexplained lights in the house ever since. But Clark couldn't quite see explaining to Bruce that he didn't want to star-watch near a haunted house, so he bit his lip and said nothing. _Ghosts aren't real, Kent. Get over it._

The sun was low in the sky now, the ragged larches behind the cottage casting long shadows across the road like prison bars. "I'm hoping we'll be able to see Hyperion tonight," Bruce said, gazing out across the bay.

Clark couldn't help whistling, impressed. His telescope could make out Saturn's rings, but he'd never seen any of its moons.

"You want to unpack the telescope while I get us a soda?" Bruce waved Clark over to the telescope while he went over to the backpack.

Clark touched the Celestron in its case almost reverently, a work of technological art. He heard a soda can open behind him and felt a cold, damp can get placed in his hand. He took a sip without looking, then stopped in surprise. "Cream soda, my favorite. Thanks."

"Oh, is it?" Bruce said distantly, looking out at the ocean.

Clark put the soda down and started to lift the telescope gently from the bag--and as he did, an eerie sound suddenly filled the air, a quavering, wailing cry.

It was coming from the abandoned house across the street.

Clark almost dropped the telescope, his skin crawling. He wanted nothing more than to grab their stuff and get out of there--but Bruce was already running toward the house. "Bruce!" Clark yelled, hurrying after him, "We shouldn't--"

"--What if someone's trapped in there?" Bruce was pelting up the weed-shattered driveway. "What if someone needs help?"

It was harder to remind himself that ghosts weren't real when the sun was nothing but a bloody sliver on the horizon and shadows lurked everywhere. The cry came again, an ululating keen, full of formless menace. "They don't--I don't think they sound like they need our _help_ , Bruce."

Bruce's feet were loud on the rotting porch. The door was boarded up, so Bruce jumped off the porch and ran around to the back. There he found a door, half-hidden behind a shaggy lilac bush. "Come on," he whispered as he started to squeeze through.

"Bruce, I don't--"

"--It's a mystery, Clark, a real _mystery!_ " Bruce's face was alight; for the first time Clark caught a glimpse of the Bruce he remembered from years ago.

He followed that Bruce into the darkness.


	3. Sea Rescue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce and Clark explore a haunted house and rescue a drowning man.

Bruce heard Clark sneeze sharply behind him as dusty air assailed them. He unclipped the flashlight from his belt and let its beam play across the splintered walls and musty furniture.

"Some people say this house is haunted." Clark's voice quavered a bit in the darkness. "That's...that's nonsense, of course."

Bruce moved the flashlight beam along the floor. "Unless ghosts wear boots," he said. "Look. There are tracks in the dust."

"Okay, no ghosts," said Clark. "Just real men in boots skulking around somewhere. That's very reassuring."

Bruce was far too caught up in the mystery to notice Clark's reluctance to continue. He raised his voice and addressed the dark house: "Are you all right? Do you need help?"

Silence.

"The tracks go through here..." He followed the prints in the dust into another room with a canopy bed, swathed in cobwebs now. Out the window glimmered Gotham Bay, drowned in dusky shadows and sunset light. On the wall hung a picture of a middle-aged man in old-fashioned clothes with a beaky nose and beady eyes. "Egbert Cobblepot, I presume," Bruce said, reading the plate.

The dust in the bedroom was stirred up in every direction. Bruce opened a closet and Clark jumped as if he expected a skeleton to leap out, but there were only heavy coats sheathed in black plastic. A quick inspection of the rest of the house revealed the other rooms were undisturbed. "That's odd," said Bruce. "No footprints in the kitchen or the library at all. Why just the bedroom?"

"Can we think about this mystery outside?" Clark's head was swiveling back and forth with the wavering beam of light. "There's no one here that needs help and...I think this is trespassing."

"Hrm," said Bruce, but made his way out of the house.

"Maybe it was just the wind," Clark said when they got back to the telescope. "Maybe we imagined it."

"There _is_ no wind," Bruce pointed out. "And we didn't imagine it. No, it's a mystery, all right." He puzzled over it, scratching at a mosquito bite on his arm. In the bay, below the bluffs, two small motorboats were zipping around, cutting white ribbons into the shadowed water, one following the other. Bruce watched them, his eyes slowly narrowing. "Something's not right down there. They're driving too fast, and--"

Over the water, the sound of a gunshot drifted up to the two boys, eerily distinct in the silent air. Then another.

Bruce swung to meet Clark's eyes, his own wide and startled.

"That was--"

"What do we--"

As their voices overlapped, someone below shouted something indistinct. Clark could see a tiny figure in one of the boats stand and throw something toward the boat ahead of them. There was a strange dull _thud_ , a gout of flame, and the boat exploded into debris and black smoke.

Both boys were moving before the sound stopped ricocheting off the bare bluffs, hurling themselves down the steep slope, shale and rocks slipping under their feet. Clark found himself at the foot of the bluffs on a tiny, pebbled beach nestled between jagged rocks. Beside him, Bruce kicked off his sneakers and plunged into the water without a moment's hesitation. "Bruce!" Clark's cry was swallowed up in the sound of surf; Bruce was already surprisingly far from the shore, kicking strongly against the waves, his strokes sure and economical. Clark stared across the blazing wreckage bobbing in the water and saw the other boat roaring away, a white dot on the horizon. Whoever was shooting guns and throwing grenades from the boat didn't seem to realize there had been witnesses.

Bruce was almost to the wreckage now. Clark saw him suddenly surge forward and come up supporting a figure; Clark had his own sneakers off and was floundering toward the two swimmers with his pathetic crawl stroke by the time they turned toward the shore.

He met them halfway out. Bruce was struggling to keep a man above water; the man's head lolled, unconscious and bleeding. Clark got his shoulder under the man's body and tried to support both of them a little. Bruce was gasping and sputtering, his motions no longer sure but heavy and dragging. Clark wasn't certain he'd be strong enough to help get them safely to shore. He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling cold riptides dragging at them, greedy and demanding. _Be strong enough_ , he told himself, as if it could possibly make a difference.

Somehow it was enough to get all three of them to the rocky beach.

Staggering to his knees, Bruce turned the man onto his side. He coughed and gagged water, half-conscious; then his eyes slid closed again with a groan. He was in his thirties, with a reddish-brown mustache and matching hair plastered to his scalp. Clark heard Bruce take a deep, shaky breath. "This is a policeman."

"Huh?" Clark looked at the injured man. One sleeve was slowly turning red. "He doesn't look like a policeman."

"He is. I know him. His name's Gordon."

Clark was starting to shiver in the deepening shadows of the bluff. "You know a lot of policemen?" he asked, trying to break Bruce's fixed look a bit. "Are you in trouble a lot?"

Bruce shook his head but didn't answer. He reached out and brushed the man's hair aside, probing. "The head wound isn't as bad as it looks."

"The arm is bad," said Clark.

Bruce nodded.

Clark stared up the shale-slippery slope. "We have to get him up somewhere safe. What if those guys come back?"

Bruce stood. He was shivering too, but hardly seemed to notice. "Let's get him up to the top."

Using a backpack as a makeshift travois, the two boys managed to haul Gordon to the top of the bluff. The policeman groaned when his arm was jostled, but otherwise showed no sign of consciousness.

On the grassy opening, they stopped to catch their breath. The Cobblepot cottage loomed nearby, empty-eyed and unwelcoming. "Farmhouse...down the road," Clark wheezed. "Maybe someone there. With a phone."

Safely on level ground, they were able to lift Gordon and carefully carry him back toward the farmhouse. Clark was terrified that he'd drop the wounded man, but he managed to keep going, keep his end of the burden aloft.

There were lights on in the farmhouse, although the porch light was off. Clark and Bruce carefully eased the still-unconscious Gordon down and Bruce went to knock on the door.

The door was opened by a skinny man with a shock of pale hair. He looked at the body on the porch and his eyes widened. "What--"

"He almost drowned," Clark gasped, "He needs help. Please--call an ambulance."

The man was still staring when someone in the room behind him said, "What's going on, Clarence?"

Clarence glanced over his shoulder. "It's, um...two kids and a guy. He's hurt bad."

"Well, by all means, show them in."

There were four men in the house, and between them they soon had Gordon on a sofa. Blood from his arm was staining the fabric of the sofa, but it was already a mass of stains already, so Clark wasn't sure one more would matter.

The whole farmhouse was extremely run down, as were three of its inhabitants. The fourth--the man who had instructed Clarence to let them in--was a stocky man with a long nose and sharp eyes. His face looked somehow familiar, but Clark couldn't place it, distracted by the sight of the police officer bleeding on the couch.

"What should we do, boss?" Clarence asked, looking at the fourth man.

"Do? Why, we call for an ambulance, of course," said the man sharply. He didn't look happy about Clarence calling him "boss." "George, go dial 911."

One of the other men nodded and went into the kitchen. Clark could hear him on the phone: "Um, yeah. I need to report a guy who's hurt bad." A silence, just a bit too short to be an actual question on the other end. "Some kids brought him half-drowned, yeah...."

The long-nosed man was looking at Clark and Bruce as Clarence dabbed at Gordon's wound. "You saved this man? How very heroic of you, Mister..."

Bruce cleared his throat. "My name's Alfred. Alfred Kane. And my friend here is Robin Arthur." He said it so smoothly and surely that Clark blinked at him for a second before realizing, with a rush of relief, that he wasn't alone in feeling suspicious and unsure.

"Nice to meet you, sir," he said to the man, who was smiling at them, an oily smile that made Clark even more uneasy.

"So how did you nice young lads manage to find this poor soul?"

"We were exploring the rocks and found him washed up on a little beach," Bruce said. Clark smiled and nodded, trying to look a bit simple and letting Bruce take the lead so their stories wouldn't get tangled. "Maybe he was fishing and fell in?"

George came back into the room. "They said they'd send an ambulance, um...real soon now." His eyes darted to the "boss" as if for reassurance.

George was a terrible liar.

"Oh good," said Bruce. "Well, it's getting dark and Robin and I should be getting home. Thanks so much for helping."

The men didn't suggest the boys stay to explain the incident to the rescue team; they looked relieved to see Bruce and Clark go. "Have a safe walk home, boys," said the boss, smiling his unctuous smile.

The two of them walked down the driveway to the road, now totally swallowed in darkness. At the road, Bruce turned right, toward Gotham.

"Your telescope--"

"--Forget the telescope," Bruce hissed. He was still smiling, almost strolling, careless and relaxed. Only his voice was strained and urgent. "We have to get to the police!"

Once they were out of sight of the farmhouse, they both broke into a run. "What do you think--is going--on?" Clark asked around the stitch in his side.

"I don't know--but it's not good," Bruce gasped back. "Couldn't do anything there--got to get help--"

Headlights cut through the night, coming along the curving road toward them. Bruce grabbed Clark's arm and hauled him off the road into the bushes. They crouched there like rabbits, shivering in their sea-soaked clothes, as a car drove past them slowly. The driver, George, was scanning the side of the road. As the boys shrank deeper into the underbrush, Clark could see in the back seat the beaky silhouette of the "boss."

As the car disappeared, Bruce let out a long, slow breath. "They covered up their license plate, of course." He scrambled to his feet. "I'm betting Gordon was in the trunk of that car. And we could have been too."

"Do you think he's...still alive?" Clark asked, hearing the quaver in his voice.

"I don't know." Bruce was staring after the car. "I don't know." He started to jog down the road again. "He has to be. We have to save him."

**: : :**

They finally reached the Manor what seemed like hours later, panting and winded, their clothes crusted with sea salt. They breathlessly explained what had happened to Alfred, who immediately called the police. Soon a Detective Hansen was at the door and flashing a badge, her short curly hair tucked under a police cap. She sat in the library and took notes while the boys spilled out the story, their voices overlapping. Sometimes she would stop them and make them go back over some piece of information: she seemed especially interested in their description of the man who had seemed to be in charge.

"And why did you think this man you saved was one of our officers, Mr. Wayne?" she said after Bruce and Clark ran out of things to say.

"I...met him. Six years ago."

"And you remember him so well?" The woman's eyebrows arched.

"Yes." Bruce's mouth set in a hard line. "It was the night my parents were murdered. I remember everything from that night."

"Oh." The detective had the grace to look chagrined. "I'm sorry."

Bruce shook his head. "I just want to help him."

"Can you...tell us what's going on?" Clark said.

Hansen shook her head, her lips set in a tight line. "Most certainly not. I'm sorry, but the less you know, the safer you are."

"Will you at least tell us if he's okay? Or..." Bruce's voice dropped away into nothingness.

The detective gave him a sympathetic look. "I'm sure he'll be fine, kid," she said.

"I...I hope so." Bruce sounded close to tears. "Please, please find him." The woman smiled gently and stood. As she did, Bruce got up and threw his arms around her in an awkward hug. "Thank you," he said in a stifled voice. "For listening to us."

The detective patted him on the back with the hand not holding her clipboard, looking uncomfortable. "Don't worry, kid," she said.

Bruce and Clark watched her car go down the long, winding drive into the night. Clark sneaked sideways glances at Bruce, wondering if he was okay. He'd never seen Bruce cry before: not when he broke his arm, not at his parents' funeral. To see him so close to tears now was unnerving. Just how depressed was his friend? He reached out a tentative hand, let it drop again. "Bruce. I need to go home or my mother will worry, but--"

Bruce swung around, his eyes shining with a dark gleam that startled Clark almost more than the vanished tears. "Clark," he said urgently, "Can you come back after and spend the night here?"

"Um. Sure," said Clark, feeling suddenly like he didn't know where to put his hands, like his feet were too large. "But--"

"--It's important," Bruce said, putting his hands on Clark's shoulders and giving him a gentle, conspiratorial shake. "Really important.

" _I've found a clue!"_


	4. Weeding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A day of research and gardening leads Bruce to some confessions and revelations.

"Your mother didn't mind you coming back?"

"No, it's fine," said Clark. It was mostly true. Martha Kent had gasped at his sodden and salt-crusted clothes, then listened to the story of their rescue--carefully framed to minimize any danger--with narrowed eyes, but had raised no objections to his spending the night at the Manor. No verbal objections, at least. Clark put the memory of her dubious look aside. "You said you found a clue?"

Bruce flipped open a small notebook. "When I hugged Detective Hansen, I got a look at her notes. Most of it was just what we had told her, but in the margins she'd scribbled a couple of other things. I saw--" He broke off at the look Clark was giving him. "What?"

"Were you just _pretending_ to be all upset so you could sneak a look at her notes?"

"Of course!" Bruce scoffed. "You didn't think I was really getting all weepy there, did you?"

"Well, I...no." Clark hadn't been sure what to think, to be honest. Bruce's mood had been so odd since he came back from Milton--kicked out, he said--and he had seemed honestly rattled when he had recognized the police officer pulled from the surf.

"Don't be silly," Bruce said. "Getting all mushy isn't going to help Officer Gordon. See, I saw two phrases in the margins that stood out, because we'd never said them to her." He scratched a couple of words down with his pencil. " _King snake_ and _eastern star_. But what would a snake have to do with any of this? I didn't see any snakes in that farmhouse--"

"Was 'king snake' capitalized?"

Bruce cast his eyes up, recalling. "It...could have been. Hard to tell from her handwriting."

Clark stood up and paced back and forth across the room, like he'd seen detectives on television do. "Perry White was yelling this week about a story the chief editor had killed. It was about a smuggling ring that was expanding from Hong Kong into Gotham. I'm pretty sure he said the leader of the ring was called King Snake."

"Smugglers?" Bruce whistled. "Do you think maybe Gordon was working undercover to try and catch them? And they caught him at it?" He rested his chin in his hands, staring at nothing. "And those guys in the farmhouse--they might be working with the smugglers too. We--we might have given him right back to the people he was trying to get away from."

Bruce looked so stricken at the thought that Clark couldn't help wincing. "If we hadn't been there he probably would have drowned." But Bruce was scowling, his thoughts drawn into himself. He seemed suddenly as distant as the moons of Saturn, as hard to make out. "Bruce. There's nothing we can do."

"There's always something we can do," muttered Bruce as if he wasn't really listening.

"Well, there's nothing we can do _right now_ ," Clark amended. There had to be some way to reach Bruce, get him back in the room. "Tomorrow morning we'll go to the library, we'll try to figure out what _Eastern Star_ is. If what I heard from Mr. White is right, I'm betting it's a ship registered in Hong Kong."

Bruce was still frowning, but nodded. "You should go home, get some sleep," he said. Was that a hint of reluctance in his voice? Clark decided there was.

"Are you kidding? I couldn't possibly sleep."

"The library doesn't open until ten," Bruce pointed out. "What are you planning on doing until then?"

"Well," Clark said, "Ma needs me to weed out the kitchen garden. I could go do that. Or we could talk. Unless you'd rather brood some more?"

For just a second he thought he'd pushed it too far: Bruce glanced at him sharply. Then his mouth twitched in something close to a smile. "We could talk while you weed," Bruce said.

"We can talk while _we_ weed," Clark corrected. "It won't hurt you to get your hands dirty."

Bruce shook his head. His mouth was annoyed, but his eyes were not. Not quite. "I guess it won't," he said.

A half-hour later Clark was tugging at the weeds growing in amongst the basil while Bruce was clearing out the tomato patch nearby. They had a spotlight shining on the garden, but it was slow going in the dark. "Don't pull up any of the tomatoes," he said to Bruce.

Bruce made an exasperated sound. "I think I know the difference between a weed and a tomato plant, Clark."

They weeded in silence for a while. From the oak nearby an owl hooted softly. Then Bruce sputtered as he yanked on a particularly stubborn weed. "Come--out of there--you damn-- _thing!"_ A sharp, vicious tug, and a plant was hurled through the air to land with a sodden _thud_ in the growing pile of weeds. "It all just comes back," Bruce muttered.

"Yeah," Clark said, yanking on a deep root.

"No matter what you do, it just comes back," Bruce repeated through his teeth.

"Uh-huh."

"You pull it up and it just comes back and chokes out all the good stuff."

Clark made a wordless sound of agreement, although he wasn't sure Bruce was still talking about gardening.

"What's the damn _use_ of it?" Bruce growled, ripping up another weed. "You try and try and then you find out people don't even _care_ , they don't _want_ things to get better. No one--No one will--" He broke off and scrubbed at his face with a dirty hand, leaving a dark smudge on his cheekbone.

Clark looked back down at the basil. "I care," he said, picking up a clot of dirt and crumbling it between his fingers. He patted the dirt back down around the basil plant, brushing some off its leaves.

Bruce was silent for a long time, though his weeding calmed down a little and became less furious. "There were kids dealing drugs at Milton," he said after a while. "Upperclassmen. They'd get the younger kids hooked on it and then make them regular customers."

"Oh," said Clark.

"They were working with the townie kids--that's what they called them, townies--to keep the supply running. They had a good racket going. Got a kid I knew hooked really bad."

"What did you do?" It was, of course, unthinkable that Bruce hadn't done _something._

"I tried to convince some of the younger kids to go to the principal, the police. But the kids running the thing...they paid them all off. Or threatened them into silence. People I thought I could trust turned on me because I didn't have the...status, the connections." He glanced up and snorted at Clark's expression. "You're thinking I have more than enough status. But I don't have unlimited money, not like some of these guys. Mine's tied up in trust funds. I couldn't afford to buy all my 'friends'--" He spat the word down into the loamy ground, "--back. And I don't have powerful parents who can call principals, or threaten to make life miserable for the other kids' families."

"So what happened?" Clark asked after a long silence.

"I had to give up on the whistleblower idea. I decided to go it alone. I gathered evidence. Photos. Recordings. Observations. I took them to the principal."

"And he expelled you," Clark said.

A humorless flash of a smile. "Good guess. Yes. He took my evidence and had me booted as a 'troublemaker.' Which I guess I was," he added thoughtfully.

Clark felt his stomach knotting at the injustice of it, but there was no one to confront about it, no battle to be fought. "I'm sorry," he said instead.

Bruce shook his head. "Maybe it's for the best. I was starting to hate Milton. I learned a lot in the classes, and a lot about group dynamics among wealthy white boys." He rocked back on his haunches. "It's not enough. But I don't know. Maybe it's all useless. Maybe I can't..." His voice trailed off and he didn't finish the sentence--not as if he were reluctant to say it, but as if he wasn't sure where it was going himself. He shrugged and bent back to the work.

Clark looked down at the ground and finished working a long, tangled root from the earth. The dirt smelled incongruously clean and fresh, like good dirt can. "I think you can probably do anything you decide to," he said. Bruce snorted, a sound with a self-deprecating edge to it, but didn't respond further. "We need some trash bags for these," Clark said, standing up and dusting off the knees of his jeans. Bruce looked at the heaps of weeds as if he was vaguely surprised to discover that they'd made so much progress before standing and following him.

The air was gray with the pale light before dawn and they left twin trails of darkened grass across the dew-beaded lawn. Clark pulled open the storage shed doors and turned on the weak bulb, casting dim yellow light around the space. Clark opened up one of the cabinets and began to rummage. Behind him he could hear Bruce moving around. "Hey, it's my old wagon," Bruce said, his voice distant. "And that crazy garden gnome Mrs. Elliot gave my mother. Alfred gave it such a look! I never knew where it ended up."

"Yeah," said Clark, "Everything finds its way here eventually, I think. It's like the Bermuda Triangle of missing objects." He pulled out a couple of plastic bags, then paused, biting his lip, unsure whether to say it. Then he blurted nonchalantly: "Though I never found that old letter opener we had as kids. You probably don't remember it."

"I remember it." Bruce's voice was farther way, like he was fading into the back of the shed.

"I looked all over for it," Clark said, keeping his voice studiously casual. "I guess it got thrown out, though. Too bad--it could have been an antique, could have been worth some real money."

"I suppose."

Clark closed the cabinet with a sudden flare of annoyance--at Bruce or himself, he wasn't sure which. "Well, it's not--" He broke off as he realized Bruce wasn't looking at him. Instead, he was standing in front of a statue that was tucked deep into a corner of the shed.

"What's this?" Bruce asked as Clark moved closer. "I never saw it before. I'd...have remembered it."

It was a statue of white marble with two winged figures, entwined as if they were battling--or dancing, or embracing, it wasn't exactly clear. The wings hid parts of them from view, so you could only seem them clearly as you walked around it. One figure was an angel with feathered wings upswept as through attacking or protecting. His face was oddly serene, classically perfect.

The other figure had bat-wings, the leathery texture perfectly captured in pale stone. The marble was so thin on the wings that light could shine through it like alabaster. As you walked around the statue, the face of the bat-winged figure would slowly come into view. Instead of being ugly or demonic, however, it was perhaps even more beautiful than the angel's face, alive with passion and a hint of humor to the lips. The two figures' eyes were locked on each other, frozen and timeless, caught in a transcendent moment of confrontation or illumination.

"It's pretty, isn't it?"

"Pretty," Bruce echoed as if the word had no meaning at all.

"It was for your mother's moon garden."

"My mother's--what?" Bruce looked at Clark as if he'd forgotten he was there.

"Moon garden. She was planning it with my mother. An all-white garden for watching the moon." Martha Kent still took the yellowing, brittle plans out now and then, usually on the anniversary of the Waynes' deaths.

Bruce reached out and touched the outermost wingtip of the angel with one finger. "It shouldn't be sitting here in the dark." He kept looking at the statue until Clark cleared his throat and rustled the trash bag meaningfully. "Oh, right. Weeding." He followed Clark out of the shed, but cast a last look at the statue as it slipped into the darkness once more.

**: : :**

The low morning sun was making the dew on the grass dazzle like a thousand lights when they finished weeding the garden. As they bagged up the last of the weeds, they heard a car crunching along the gravel driveway. Brushing off his hands, Bruce moved to the front of the house with Clark beside him, to find a police car pulling up.

Detective Hansen pulled something from the seat next to her: the Celestron telescope case. "Found this up on the bluff," she said, handing it to Bruce. "Thought you'd like to know--both the Cobblepot cottage and the farmhouse are empty. There's no sign of--well, there's no sign of violence at the farmhouse." No excessive blood and no body, Bruce mentally translated for her. That meant Gordon was probably alive when he was taken to wherever they took him. A wave of relief unhinged his knees without warning and he wobbled a step as he moved to take the telescope back.

"Thank you," he said.

Her eyes narrowed. "Don't go poking around that crime scene. We'll be taking care of it now, and we need to be able to find you if we have any more questions. Understand?"

It was Clark who responded this time. "We understand, Detective Hansen," he said politely.

She cast them a suspicious look, then put the car into gear once more. "You'd better," she said one more time as the car started to slip away.

"The library will be open soon," Bruce said, turning to Clark as the car disappeared around the bend. "Are you free?"

"You bet."

"Then let's go." Bruce went back in the front door. "Alfred?" he called as he swung open the door. The name echoed around the empty house, and as usual Bruce felt a tightening below his breastbone as he looked around at the furniture covered in white sheets, untouched and hidden. Like the winged statue, wasting its beauty on darkness and emptiness. For perhaps the first time since his parents' death he felt a fierce tenderness toward the house, the empty grounds, the rose garden pouring out its heady fragrance to the vacant air. He stopped still in the morning dimness, remembering laughter and music echoing down the grand stairway. _I'll come back for good someday,_ he thought. _I promise_.

"You will?" He didn't realize until he heard Clark's voice that he'd spoken aloud. He turned to see Clark looking at him, his expression unreadable. "You won't just let all this rot away forever?" A pang of horror at the thought stabbed through Bruce, although he had never seriously considered what would happen to Wayne Manor in the future one way or another. "Alfred and my mother do a lot to keep it from falling apart," Clark went on.

"I want to live here again someday," Bruce said. He heard a note of wonder in his own voice at the words, but knew he meant them. Living at Wayne Manor didn't fit with any of his half-shaped dreams and plans.

And yet there it was.

Clark nodded--not in agreement, but as if he were considering Bruce's words, weighing them. "That's good."

Footsteps echoed down the hallway toward the great hall. "Ah, Master Bruce," said Alfred as he swung upon one of the heavy doors. "I thought I heard your voice. Forgive me for responding slowly."

"No problem," said Bruce. "Clark and I need to go to the library to do some research. Could you give us a ride?"

Alfred's eyes narrowed. "Is this related to that police officer you rescued?"

Behind Bruce, Clark cleared his throat. "Mr. White told me to find some books about the history of the Gotham Knights by Monday."

"I thought I'd help him look," Bruce ad-libbed.

Alfred looked pleased. "I'll bring the car around, sir."

"Nice save," Bruce said as he heard the door close behind Alfred.

"Well, it's actually true, too." Clark looked embarrassed to be caught telling the truth.

Bruce punched him lightly on the arm. "Then I'll help you with that like I said I would."

**: : :**

The library was steeped in early-morning hush. Bruce looked over at Clark, head bent over a book of maritime registries. Sunlight falling through the stained-glass window touched his hair with red, gold, and blue as he stared at the book, his mouth curved in a thoughtful frown. Bruce put aside one leather-bound volume of _History of Gotham Families_ and reached for another. His eyes skimmed down the pages until he finally stopped and put his finger on a photograph, lips pursing in a silent whistle of triumph. He was about to say something to Clark when Clark made a small sound of excitement. "Got it!" he hissed. He turned the book around so Bruce could see, resting his finger on one column of text. "The _Eastern Star,_ a freighter out of Hong Kong. I bet that's what the note meant."

"Look what I found," Bruce said in turn. He showed Clark the page: on it a group photograph, clearly a family, about twenty people in formal dress.

"That's--" Clark looked up from the photo, excitement kindling in his eyes. "That's the guy from the farmhouse, the boss." Indeed, although younger and better-dressed, he was clearly the beak-nosed man who had taken Gordon prisoner.

"That's Oswald Cobblepot," Bruce said. "I thought he looked familiar. Here's his uncle, standing in the middle. Definite family resemblance, I remembered it from the portrait in the summer cottage."

"So...the cottage with the weird noises coming from it, that's legally his? Why isn't he there? Why all the secrecy?"

Bruce propped his chin in his hand, staring at the photo. "Maybe he doesn't want to be connected to the house? My guess is they're using the area as a base for smuggling. They move the smuggled goods from the ocean up the bluff."

Clark frowned. "That's a long hike to do with boxes up an exposed cliff."

"I know. There's something more going on there." Bruce closed the book and tapped the leather cover thoughtfully. "But I think that's all we can do here."

Clark jumped up. "Okay, let's find Alfred and go home."

"Aren't you forgetting something?"

"Huh?" Clark paused, puzzled. "We found the ship and the Cobblepot connection, what more--"

"--Your Gotham Knights histories?"

A sheepish grin. "Oh yeah, those. But we need to--"

"--I promised I'd help you find some, and I will." Bruce couldn't resist reaching out and poking Clark in the ribs. "Besides, Alfred would find it suspicious if we didn't have anything to show for our visit."

"Oh yeah," Clark said. "You're sneaky," he added admiringly.

"That's nothing," Bruce said as they headed for the card catalog. "You should see me when I'm really trying."

**: : :**

They found Alfred ensconced in the historical fiction section, reading an old spy thriller. "Ah," he said as the boys drew near. "Did your researches bear fruit?" Clark held up the small stack of sports books and he nodded in approval. "Perhaps the two of you would join me for a bit of luncheon?"

Bruce started to say no. He was anxious to hurry home and get ready for this evening--and the plans he hadn't shared with Clark. Then he stopped.

"I'd like that," he said.

The flicker of pleased surprise in Alfred's eyes was gone almost before it registered. "Very well then, young sirs."

**: : :**

Bruce watched in some astonishment as Alfred Pennyworth picked up a large hamburger and began to eat it with impossible precision, wiping his fingers on the small paper napkin as if it were linen. Beside Bruce, Clark was heavily involved with his own burger. Bruce wasn't sure what he had expected lunch with Alfred to be--surely not crystal chandeliers and chamber music--but a burger and fries at Biggie Boy certainly had not been conceived as a possibility.

"And what information did you uncover today, Master Clark?"

Clark hastily finished chewing. "Um. I haven't had time to read the books yet, but--"

"--I was not referring to your baseball research." Alfred arched his eyebrows blandly as he lifted a french fry. "I meant the real reason you were so eager to get to the library."

Bruce glanced over to see Clark's jaw hanging ajar; apparently Clark's ability to lie ran dry when faced with Alfred Pennyworth. "It was my idea," he said to distract the butler's gimlet eyes from Clark.

The look Alfred turned on him was neutral, but Bruce fought an urge to squirm like a young boy in his seat. "Your idea to..." Alfred let the question hang in the air.

"To...find some information about the Gordon case," Bruce said as steadily as he could. "We were looking up information about the cottage on the bluff, the Cobblepot one."

"Oswald Cobblepot is running a smuggling ring!" blurted Clark.

Alfred frowned. "That's a serious accusation," he said.

"He was the man in charge of the thugs who took Gordon," Bruce said. "But we don't understand why he doesn't just claim his uncle's property."

Alfred's eyes narrowed. "It's not publicly known that Egbert Cobblepot died with a great amount of debts, but it's true. Oswald might not be willing to assume responsibility for them."

"Or he can't pay them off and got into the smuggling to make enough money so he can," put in Clark.

"Young Oswald was always a shady type," Alfred said. "I wouldn't be surprised if his illicit activities stretched back quite a long way." He took another fastidious bite of burger, looking thoughtful. Bruce was trying not to let his surprise show. Not only were they not being chastised by Alfred, he was taking them seriously, discussing their theories about the case like they were adults. Bruce felt a sudden warmth kindle in him, a sense of validation he hadn't felt in a long time.

"Have you ever heard of King Snake?" Bruce asked before he could think better of it.

Alfred's face darkened. "A Hong Kong kingpin and crime lord. I've heard of him, yes."

"Wow, how do you know so much?" Clark sounded impressed.

"A butler is an expert at keeping his ears open and his mouth closed," Alfred said. Bruce didn't feel that was a very satisfactory answer, but it was clearly all they were getting from him.

"So Oswald Cobblepot is working with King Snake to smuggle drugs into Gotham," Clark said, fiddling with his straw.

"Perhaps," said Alfred. He gave Bruce a warning look. "And although I understand and commend the desire to gather information, I do hope you will have the good sense to leave it at that."

"Don't worry," Clark said cheerfully. "We're not going to go running off looking for him or anything."

Bruce stretched his lips in a smile that he hoped was reassuring, counting on Clark's patent sincerity to carry him through the moment.

Alfred looked at Bruce for a long moment, his sharp gaze softening. "Master Bruce, I remember Officer Gordon well myself." Bruce looked down at the placemat, feeling heat burn his cheeks as Alfred went on. "He's a good man. I fully understand wanting to see him safe." There was a light touch on Bruce's hand, clenched into a fist on the checkered tablecloth. Bruce looked up, surprised, but Alfred's hands were already tidily folded in front of him again. "Your instincts do you credit. But you must understand that--" Alfred broke off for a moment. "--That it would be tragic indeed for all of us if something were to happen to you. I know that we have seen you little in the past years, but rest assured you have people who care about you deeply." His voice was as stiff and formal as if he were reciting a menu, but Bruce bit his lip, unable to meet his eyes.

"I'm--I'm sorry I haven't come home much," Bruce muttered.

"My dear boy, it's perfectly understandable--"

"--But I will," Bruce spoke over his words, lifting his eyes. "I promise I will someday. I'll come back and live in the Manor and it will be--not like it used to be, but--but--"

Alfred blinked at him as he stammered into silence, unable to articulate his words. "I shall be looking forward to the day, Master Bruce," he said gently.

"Cool," Clark announced as he wolfed down his last fries. "Are you going to eat those?" he asked, pointing at Bruce's plate of fries.

Bruce snorted a laugh and some of the tension seemed to leak out of him. "Help yourself," he said, shoving the plate over to him.

**: : :**

Bruce slipped through the shadows of the great hall and out the kitchen door, picking his way through the vegetable garden, weedless and tidy in the darkness. Alfred's bedroom window was dark, and Bruce felt a brief pang as he glanced at it. _I'm sorry, Alfred. But there are things more important than safety._ Nestled into the trees nearby, the Kents' cottage was also lightless and still.

Bruce looked at the darkened windows for a moment, then hurried down the hill toward the boathouse.

There was one piece of information on Detective Hansen's notepad he hadn't shared with Clark: 23:50. Military time. The time, Bruce suspected, when the _Eastern Star_ would pass by Gotham and drop cargo to be picked up by Cobblepot and his gang. The time when Gordon might be handed over to King Snake's men.

He slipped slightly on the stony path in the dark and cursed to himself. He wasn't feeling badly he hadn't told Clark, he _wasn't._ Clark didn't owe anything to Gordon, and Bruce wasn't going to endanger him too. It wasn't because he was _friends_ with Clark or anything--he'd destroyed that bond years ago, he knew that. It was just...when he was with Clark, digging weeds or doing research, he didn't feel like an alien anthropologist noting primate hierarchy rituals. He didn't feel like he was always observing himself and his effect on the other person, calculating his next statement. He was simply...with Clark.

The boathouse was silent in the inky, moonless night. The lapping of waves echoed inside the building as Bruce groped for the light switch. "Damn it," he muttered.

"Let me get that," said another voice, and the lights came on.

Clark Kent stood with his hand on the light switch, his jaw set in annoyance.

"What are you doing here?" said Bruce.

"I was planning on asking you the same thing," Clark retorted. "I could tell something was up, and it seemed a good guess you might try to take the motorboat. I just didn't know when." The severe line of his mouth tilted into a sudden, wry smile. "I've been here for about three hours now."

"This has nothing to do with you--"

"--Oh, screw that, Bruce," Clark said, exasperated. He rolled his eyes at Bruce's raised eyebrows. "What? Don't tell me I've shocked you with my language. I'm not a _child_ , you know. And I helped save Gordon too. I did that research with you. There's no way I'm letting you do something stupid like this on your own."

"It could be dangerous," Bruce muttered, looking away.

"All the more reason," Clark said. He shrugged when Bruce didn't answer and started untying the ropes holding the smaller of the two motorboats to the mooring. "Look," he said with a quick glance over his shoulder. "Either I waste your time trying to talk you out of it, or we save time and I come along."

"I could just knock you out and go without you."

This time Clark's smile was bemused and amused at the same time. "That doesn't seem a very friendly thing to do."

"I'm not a very friendly person," Bruce said. The words sounded unexpectedly sullen and defensive as they echoed with the lapping water. "I would think that would be obvious by now."

Clark straightened, still holding the rope, and gave Bruce a long look. "Do you still like the Gray Ghost?"

Bruce considered possible answers. _The Gray Ghost is for children. It's a silly, unrealistic story. I'm not a child._ "Yeah," he heard himself say.

"Well, there you go," said Clark as if Bruce's answer settled everything. He put a foot on the prow of the boat and looked back at Bruce. "Let's go do something stupid and ridiculous and heroic together."

A few minutes later, Bruce started to back the boat out of the boathouse.

"You _do_ have a license to drive this, right?" Clark asked suddenly.

"Um..."

"Oh boy."

The night was moonless and full of stars, the little inlet as smooth and clear as glass.

Bruce steered them out toward the open sea.


	5. Dark Waves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce and Clark discover a smuggler's lair.

The waves were choppier out in Gotham Bay proper; the little motorboat bumped from crest to crest, jarring the two boys in it. "Who'd have thought--water could be--so _hard_?" Clark complained as the boat slapped down on the sea between waves. But he was grinning widely, clearly thrilled that he'd talked Bruce into letting him come along as they tried to unravel the mystery of the smuggling ring.

Bruce knew this was no laughing matter. It was bad enough that he'd abandoned Officer Gordon to the smugglers, but now he was dragging Clark into danger too. He'd sworn to spend his life _protecting_ the kind and gentle, not putting them in harm's way. The nightmare vision that woke him sweating and shaking most nights flashed through his mind again: Mark Underwood's pale face, blood trickling from his nose, begging them not to hurt him anymore, he wouldn't rat on them, he promised. It had taken four older boys to hold Bruce down as they'd made an example of Mark and left him crumpled on the ground.

He didn't ever want to see Clark battered and bloody and know it was his fault.

Despite his worry, the cloud of gloom that had seemed to cut him off from the world and trap him in his own mind somehow appeared to have lifted. He even found himself smiling grimly as they carved through the water, throwing up sprays of dark diamonds on either side.

As they entered the cove under the bluffs, he cut the lights and pulled the motor back to a low throb. "What are you looking for?" Clark asked under the sound of the waves.

"If the smugglers are getting goods from the sea to that house--" Bruce pointed with his chin to the Cobblepot summer cottage, crouched on the cliff like a vulture, "--there has to be some way other than lugging it all up the cliff face. So we're looking for a cave with a water entrance, probably camouflaged. I have to keep an eye out for rocks, so you'll have to do most of the looking."

"Got it."

The boat bobbed on the waves, moving slowly along the coast. Bruce eyed the water dubiously: it looked deep enough here, but a sudden shoal or rock could ruin their propeller. The little boat was in good condition--he silently thanked Alfred yet again--but it was far from new and he wasn't sure how reliable it was. He patted the outboard motor gently as he steered around a barnacle-encrusted outcropping.

"There," Clark murmured, excitement clear in his voice despite his low tone.

Bruce squinted. "I don't see anything."

"There's a net or something across the opening. Right there." Clark pointed.

Bruce followed his gaze to a spot on the cliff. "You've got good eyes," he said. "I never would have made that out." He felt Clark shrug next to him in the darkness, embarrassed and pleased.

They tied the boat to a rock near the entrance and picked their way over slippery rocks to the cave mouth. Pushing aside the net, they found a narrow shelf of rock they could make their way along. A canal of water led into the cliff, into darkness. There was a flickering light deep within, just enough to make out the way to go. The sea sighed around them, full of vague menace. The passageway looked very dark.

"Well, what are we waiting for?" said Clark, and pushed his way in.

**: : :**

Clark felt his feet slip on the damp rock. Behind him, Bruce held up a small flashlight, and the faint light was enough to navigate by. He kept one hand on the cave wall, trying not to flinch as it encountered slimy patches. His knees felt loose and wobbly and there was a gnawing feeling in the pit of his stomach, but he couldn't stand to look like a coward in front of Bruce. Bruce, who had taken on a drug ring while Clark was writing essays about the _gifted and talented program_. Bruce, who had been planning on going into danger all alone. Clark couldn't show how scared he was, couldn't show how he wanted to turn around and scramble back to the boat and bed and safety.

So he kept going forward.

The canal came to an end; there was a metal ring set in the stone for a potential mooring, a small speedboat tied to it. There were a few burlap sacks in the back of the boat, but otherwise it was empty. The passage branched off in five different directions, and from here there were dim, flickering electric lights set into each of the passages. Bruce stopped and took a moment to look into the speedboat, staring at a map pinned on the dashboard.

"Which way now?" said Clark. Bruce looked at the identical passages for a moment, then shrugged and pointed with his chin to the left-most. Together they edged carefully deeper into the cave.

The narrow passage widened out into a room. Their breaths echoed around the walls, and something glinted in the dim light. "Look," Bruce whispered. He trained the his flashlight onto a stack of plastic bags filled with a pale powder, then played the beam over a pile of elephant tusks, unmarked paper bags, some china vases, heaps of goods tangled together. "I think we've found the smuggled goods." The flashlight beam stopped on a blackness that swallowed it up. Clark could see stairs vanishing upward. "I bet that goes right up to the Cobblepot house," said Bruce. "That's how they get stuff from the sea to the top of the cliff without anyone seeing them."

Clark felt like he couldn't breathe. This was big, this was no game. They were in a lair of people who would probably kill them if they found them. He could hear dripping water and a whispering rustle that was probably waves but could almost be voices. "We should get out of here," he whispered.

"If they've got Gordon, he'll be down here somewhere," Bruce said. He darted back down the passage to the end of the canal, the speedboat bobbing gently in the water. The two boys looked at the four passages heading off into the darkness, the bulbs burning feebly. "Which way now?" he whispered, looking at Clark.

The only way Clark wanted to go was backwards, out of the tunnel, back home. But that clearly wasn't even an option for Bruce, so it wasn't really an option for Clark either. Clark cast a longing look back toward the exit. As he did, a small motion caught his eye. It was coming from the back of the speedboat.

One of the burlap sacks was moving.

Just a little motion, like an injured and semi-conscious person turning their head. Clark caught his breath and looked at Bruce to see if Bruce had seen it too. But Bruce wasn't looking at him. He wasn't looking at the speedboat. He was staring into the shadows behind Clark, and his eyes were huge and empty of everything but horror.

Clark felt something cold and metallic touch his temple, felt a hand clamp onto his shoulder.

"Hold it right there," a harsh voice announced.


	6. Leap in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce and Clark must save themselves and then Jim Gordon from the clutches of the smugglers.

There was a gun pointing at Clark Kent's head.

There was a man behind Clark, and a hand holding him motionless, and a gun pointing at his head.

Bruce Wayne knew three judo throws that would leave the man flat on the floor. He knew six karate techniques that would break his wrist, or his nose, or leave him doubled-up in pain. He knew all of them, but the information was abstract, distanced. It didn't seem connected to his body at all. He had no way to use it.

"Just what do you think you're doing here?"

At that distance, the bullet would take off the side of Clark's head. Clark's eyes were huge, his face white. He had come along to try and keep Bruce safe and now _there was a gun pointing at his head._

Bruce raised his hands very slowly. They were shaking. "Please. Let him go."

The man glanced from one boy to the other. "It's you kids," he said. "What the hell are you--"

"George, George, George." A squawking voice came from the shadows, and Oswald Cobblepot strolled into the dim light. His eyes were flicking around the cave, from the speedboat to the boys to his henchman, but his smile was ingratiating. "There's no need to be so bellicose."

"Uh...sure. I guess." George didn't seem certain what "bellicose" meant, but he could read his boss's tone. The gun moved away from Clark's head slightly, and Bruce's breath came just a bit easier.

"Now, what are you charming lads doing here? Apparently saving a soul from the cruel surf yesterday only whetted your appetite for adventure." Cobblepot waved a hand around the cave's dank walls. "And you have discovered this _chateau del mar_ , as did we. I'm certain that, like us, you were investigating yesterday's unfortunate incident and came across this hidey-hole. Have you...explored much of it? Seen the sights?" His eyes glittered in the darkness. George's fingers were still tense on the gun pointing at Clark.

Bruce opened his mouth, but no words came out. His thoughts felt congealed. He couldn't think. He couldn't act. Not with Clark still--

"Are there sights?" Clark's voice was full of innocent curiosity. "This is as far as we'd gotten. Is it an old pirate hideout? Is it _totally cool_?"

Cobblepot smiled at him indulgently and gestured to George. George put away the gun, glowering. "It's nothing terribly noteworthy, I fear. Some old bottles and trash, but mainly rather dull. You boys really shouldn't be here." His voice was touched with frost and his smile had too many teeth. "George almost mistook you for a troublemaker of some sort. That would have been so unfortunate."

"You're absolutely right, sir," said Clark, starting to back slowly toward the cave entrance. He grabbed Bruce's sleeve and tugged, and Bruce let himself be led out of the cave. "We're so sorry," Clark called from a safe distance.

George and Cobblepot watched them scramble back out of the cave.

Clark's hand was warm on his arm, his breath coming fast. "Bruce," he hissed urgently as they made their way over the slippery rocks, "Gordon was back there!"

"What?" Bruce's attention snapped back into place.

"He was in the back of the speedboat, in one of the sacks. I saw it moving. What else could it be?"

Bruce's feet slipped on the seaweed-covered rocks. "I didn't see that."

Something must have been odd about his voice, because Clark's hand on his arm tightened. "Are you okay?"

Bruce wanted to shrug his hand and the question off, but he heard himself say in a strange, remote voice, "I froze up. He had a gun on you and I couldn't...I couldn't..."

"Hey." Clark put his other hand on Bruce's shoulder. "It's natural. It's instinct."

"I have to be better than my instincts. I can't afford to freeze up every time someone has a gun."

"Are you planning to make this a regular occurrence?" Clark's voice was jesting, and this time Bruce did shrug off his hands and begin picking his way back toward their boat. "Hey! What'd I say?" He struggled to catch up with Bruce, splashing when his feet slipped and he stepped into tidal pools. He caught up with Bruce as they were at the boat. "You are, aren't you?" he said. "Bruce, what are you planning? Are you going to be a policeman?"

Bruce looked away over the water, heaving dark under the inky sky. "Maybe," he said at last. "I don't know. Maybe something...bigger. The CIA, FBI. Interpol. I want to do something...big. That'll keep people safe." The sea air was cool but he felt his face heating up. "I know it sounds stupid."

"Are you kidding?" Clark's teeth gleamed in the darkness. "It sounds _awesome._ " He reached down and untied the boat, jumping lightly into it. "You're going to do great things, Bruce Wayne. I know it."

His voice was so certain that Bruce slipped on the rocks again, feeling suddenly almost ungainly in the face of such confidence. He scrambled into the boat. "Okay," he said, trying to sound like the kind of person who did awesome things, "Let's go to where they're going to rendezvous with the Eastern Star and save Gordon."

"But..." Clark's voice had turned uncertain. "Okay, we have that rendezvous time you found, but the ship could be anywhere. Wait..." He narrowed his eyes at Bruce. "Don't tell me you memorized the coordinates on that map so fast." Bruce was already scribbling on the boat's map. "Gosh," Clark said with a world of admiration in his tone, "You really _are_ great."

Bruce snorted as he started up the boat's engine.

"You're going to need a super-spy code name," Clark continued as the boat sped out toward the open sea. "One that I can call you when I write news stories about you. Like...the Dark Shadow." Bruce snorted again. "The Demon? The Eagle's Talon? The Scarlet Shark?" Bruce rolled his eyes and didn't deign to answer. A long pause. "How about the Silent Jackass?" Clark suggested cheerfully, and Bruce kicked him.

**: : :**

Bruce cut the engine as they reached the rendezvous point and they drifted in darkness, some distance away from the actual coordinates. After a time, two sets of lights began to converge near the spot: one a massive tanker, cutting through the water, and the other a smaller boat. Clark could hear voices drifting across the water: the squawking tones of Oswald Cobblepot, along with Clarence and George's lower voices.

Clark put his mouth close to Bruce's ear. "Do you think--Do you think they've already..."

He couldn't bring himself to finish the sentence, but Bruce shook his head. Locks of hair tickled Clark's lips. He turned to lean close to Clark. "He's almost certainly in the boat. Same reason they didn't kill us--they didn't want bodies or other evidence around. Wait until the open sea can take him."

The deep thrum of the tanker engines was starting to fill the air as it came closer. Bruce took the opportunity to nudge the little boat slightly closer to Cobblepot's, under cover of the engine noise. He cut the engine again and let the boat edge closer slowly.

Clark strained to make out the voices on the speedboat. At first they were just jumbled noises, but then suddenly it was like they sprang into focus, and he could make them out with startling clarity. "There, they've dropped the goods. All right, Clarence," said Cobblepot. "Better get the deed done before we pick up our prize. No, don't shoot him, you idiot," he added irritably. "We didn't come all this way out to get blood all over my boat. Toss him in the water and let him sink."

A frisson of terror went over Clark, and he whirled to look at Bruce--only to find that Bruce was still squinting at the speedboat, no alarm on his face. Apparently he hadn't heard Cobblepot's voice.

No time to explain. _"Now,"_ Clark hissed, grabbing the wheel and pushing Bruce aside to slam on the gas. The boat leaped forward, its motor roaring, and Clark whacked the headlights into life.

They blazed out and caught Cobblepot staring, his henchmen in the process of lifting a burlap sack. They blinked and raised their arms against the light. "The cops!" yelled George. "We're screwed!"

"No, damn it! It's just one boat! Hold steady!" roared Cobblepot, and he raised his gun and fired at the oncoming boat.

There was a sharp _ping_ and the windshield in front of Clark burst into a crazed web of plastic. Beside him, Clark heard Bruce make a strangled noise, a choking groan. Another _crack_ and something ricocheted off the side of the boat. There was a sudden pain in Clark's arm, and for a panicky moment he thought--but then he realized it was Bruce, grabbing his arm so tightly it hurt, fingers gripping through cloth to bruise flesh.

"Keep going!" Bruce yelled over the noise of the motor. "Go right by them!"

"What are you going to do?" Clark yelled back.

"Just keep going!"

Clark kept the engine gunned. Another sharp whining noise whizzed nearby. Just twenty more yards...then ten...

Bruce let go of his arm. As they sailed by the speedboat, Clark looked over to see Bruce jump from the side of the boat, springing directly at George, who was still aiming his gun.

All of the breath left Clark at once and for a moment, time seemed to stand still: Bruce's silhouette against the lights, a dark form leaping into the unknown, straight at danger. The man's face fixed in fury and a growing fear. Bruce suspended over the abyss, staring death in the face.

And then the moment was gone and the boat's momentum carried Clark well past the speedboat. He heard the crackle of gunfire and brought the boat around so sharply it almost foundered, terror making his gorge rise, filled with an sudden wild certainty that if Bruce were hurt, he was going to ram the boat and send them all under--

George was empty-handed, his gun nowhere to be seen. A sharp punch from Bruce and the bigger man collapsed. Clarence wasn't even on the boat anymore: Clark could see a head bobbing in the water. But Cobblepot was still standing, his gun pointed at Bruce, who was moving forward, his face oddly calm in the harsh spotlights. Clark yelled something--

And the burlap sack suddenly lashed out, kicking, and caught Cobblepot squarely in the knees. He went down in a heap, the gun firing wildly in the air, and Bruce jumped forward to tackle him.

In moments, Cobblepot joined George in unconsciousness, and Bruce quickly untied Jim Gordon while Clarence floundered in the water, hollering that he couldn't swim. Clark eventually took pity on him and threw him a life preserver to quiet him down.

Untied, Jim Gordon blinked owlishly at the scene, and then at his rescuers. "But...you're just a couple of _kids_ ," he said, frowning.

Bruce met Clark's eyes. His face was transfigured with triumph and adrenaline, flushed, the eyes brilliant. He grinned wolfishly, and Clark caught his breath, feeling something shift somewhere inside him.

"Yep, just us," said Bruce.

Gordon looked at Bruce sharply, with a sudden gleam of recognition in his eyes, and opened his mouth as if to say something. Then he closed it again. "Can you tie these two up while I use the radio?" He indicated his blood-stained sleeve. "Not sure I'm up to knots right now."

Bruce nodded and rummaged in the dashboard until he found some twine and began trussing up Cobblepot and George. Clark kept an eye on the sputtering Clarence while Gordon found the police band frequency. Within ten minutes, a police boat came churning over the water to retrieve the floating smuggled goods and the smugglers themselves. Cobblepot was conscious by then, glaring haughtily at Gordon while he read him his rights. "I can buy all of you when I finally get what's mine!" he blustered.

"Not everyone can be bought," said Gordon as Cobblepot was hustled into the police boat. He turned to the boys. "I haven't thanked you," he said.

"No need," said Bruce hastily as he climbed back into his own boat.

Gordon raised an eyebrow at Clark, still at the wheel. "You're a little young to have a license to drive that, aren't you?" His quizzical look dissolved into a chuckle as Clark stammered something. "I'll overlook it this time, kid. Just follow me in and no joyrides in the future." He shook his head. "Rescued by a couple of kids. I'll never live this down, you know."

He turned to the wheel of Cobblepot's speedboat and led the boys toward shore.

Clark handed the wheel over to Bruce, who started up the engine. He gripped the wheel so hard his knuckles turned white, and Clark realized his fingers were shaking. Without thinking, Clark reached out and covered Bruce's cold fingers with his own for just a second. Bruce looked at him and smiled. The wild berserker triumph was fading from his eyes, leaving him looking tired and satisfied. "We did it," he said, his voice barely carrying over the thrum of the engines.

"You're crazy, you know that?" Bruce's smile didn't waver. "You could have gotten yourself killed, jumping at an armed guy like that."

Bruce shook his head. "I needed to know I could do it. I needed to know I could face down a man with a gun and still act. And I can."

"That doesn't mean you _should_ ," Clark said. Images of Bruce going down in a welter of blood flashed before his eyes and made his voice sharper than he intended.

Bruce shook his head again, his eyes distant, as if he were looking toward a horizon farther than the star-filled sky. "You know, I think I might like the Silver Shade as a super-spy name."

"That is _totally_ a rip-off of Gray Ghost!" Clark grumbled.

Bruce laughed out loud, and Clark decided he liked the sound enough to keep complaining all the way back to shore, to Bruce's vast amusement.

But secretly he had to admit "The Silver Shade" had a nice ring to it.

" _Silver Shade, Man of Mystery, Stops Assassination Attempt," by Clark Kent._

He liked the sound of it.


	7. Rosemary for Remembrance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After their adventure, Bruce and Clark have a summer to spend together.

_Smuggling Ring Smashed, Ringleader in Custody,_ blared the front page of the _Gotham Gazette_. Clark was reading it in the kitchen, his lips moving slightly as he hit the lines he was most proud of: _When asked about his escape, Detective James Gordon said that he had help from two local boys who would remain unnamed. "They're real Gotham heroes," Gordon said._

The cottage door swung open and Bruce burst in without knocking. "Have you got it? Let me see it!" Clark held out the paper and Bruce grabbed and read it avidly. "Hey," he said, "This says 'by Dennis Gonzalez and Clark Kent'. Why'd you have to share the byline?"

"Mr. White argued I shouldn't have to, but the chief editor said he wasn't going to let an intern have a front-page headline, no matter how good the story was." Clark felt again the complicated mix of indignation and pride--the editor had admitted it was a good story, after all. "Mr. Gonzalez tightened up a lot of my language and changed a few lines to be better."

Bruce scowled. "It's still _your_ story."

Clark shrugged. "There'll be others." Bruce's fierce defense warmed him almost as much as the story itself.

Bruce grinned. "You're right, there will." He glanced a bit nervously at the door. "Look, I'd better get home before your mother gets back." Martha Kent had not taken the news of Clark's adventures terribly well, and Bruce had decided it was better to lay low for a while. "I have to get to work on those application forms, anyway."

"How's it going?"

"Finished the Sorbonne this morning. Need to work on the University of Tokyo and Oxford ones next. Won't hear back for a while, though."

Clark squashed the selfish hope that Bruce got rejected at all of them. "Well, you've got all summer to brush up on your French and Japanese."

"That and...other things," Bruce agreed. He handed the paper back to Clark. "It's a good story," he said hastily. "You should be proud. It's really impressive."

And then he was gone, running up the hill back toward the Manor.

**: : :**

When Clark left the _Gazette_ the next day, he found Bruce Wayne waiting outside the old revolving doors. He was leaning against the wall, reading a book. He glanced up when Clark came through the doors and smiled slightly. "Hey," he said.

"Hey."

The crowd of people leaving work flowed by and around them. Bruce chewed at his lip for moment. "Would you like to go exploring with me?"

"Exploring where?"

"Gotham."

Clark glanced up at the skyscrapers, the late-afternoon sun turning them from gray stone to golden. "I don't know, Bruce." Gotham, the national murder capital, was no place to go rambling about. Casual crime was a constant fear. Clark had never seen much of the city beyond the _Gazette_ and the library, and the path between those two and home.

"I need to do this," Bruce said, his jaw set. "I've been away from Gotham too long. I'll do it without you if I have to, but...I'd like the company. We'll be okay," he added as Clark continued to hesitate. "We can deal with a little danger."

A couple of weeks ago, Clark Kent would have turned him down. But since then he'd had a gun pointed at his head, he'd saved a man from a watery grave. And he'd seen Bruce Wayne leap into the unknown to save a life.

Clark nodded.

"Okay, but I have to get back home before seven or my mother will worry."

Bruce nodded in turn, his silver-blue eyes glinting with satisfaction. "Promise."

And so began the first of many evenings spent learning the secrets of Gotham.

They followed faint trails through Robinson Park and startled young lovers making out in the bushes. They climbed rickety fire escapes and looked out over the maze of rooftops. They watched the trains roar through Gotham Station, watched the intricate ebb and flow of humanity.

And as the sun set and scarlet light flowed through the narrow winding streets, Clark found himself standing at the mouth of a narrow alley. He looked up at the sign: _Park Row._ "This is--"

"I know," Bruce said, his voice tight. "I've never been back. I needed to come back." He touched Clark's elbow, a fleeting brush. "I was hoping you'd come with me."

"Of course," said Clark.

Together they stepped into the street known better now as Crime Alley.

The air seemed darker there, somehow, or it might have been Clark's reaction to the tension in Bruce's body. The cobblestones grated under their feet. Somewhere in the shadows there was a rustling sound, then a crash. Clark jumped. Bruce did not. A thin cat slipped from the shadows and glared at them with mad eyes, then skittered away.

Bruce stopped suddenly. "Here," he whispered. They stood together for a long moment, Clark's gaze flicking nervously around the shadowed alley. Bruce was looking down at something only he could see. "I'll come back again," he said, not to Clark. He looked at Clark, his eyes almost luminous in the gathering gloom. "Okay. Let's go home."

They hurried out of the darkness and back into the late summer sunlight.

They got off the train at Bristol station just as the sun slipped below the horizon. As Clark unlocked his bike, he looked over to see Bruce staring out over the city, the lights starting to come on across it. "She's beautiful," Bruce said. "And we helped her, too, the other day. All of the city."

"Yeah."

"I've been away too long." Bruce looked away from the city to Clark's face with a suddenly stricken expression. "And I'm leaving again. To France or Japan or England. I don't--" He paused and frowned. "I don't want to leave again."

Clark looked down at his bike, kicked one of the pedals and watched it spin. "She'll wait for you." The pedal slowed and stopped, and he looked up at Bruce. "This is something you have to do. And you've got all this summer, right? That's a lot of time."

Bruce's smile was fleeting. "Not enough. But--" he nodded, "--It's a start." He bent and started to unlock his own bike. "Thank you," he said, looking down at the lock. "For today."

Clark shrugged, embarrassed. "I didn't do anything." He slung his leg over the bike and put his foot on the pedal. "Race you home," he said.

Clark beat him, but Bruce claimed it was because he had a head start.

**: : :**

The car door slammed shut and Alfred Pennyworth glanced in the mirror, assessing his charge's expression. What he saw made him suppress a small sigh. "How did it go?"

Bruce glowered out the window. "It went like--" He stopped and glanced guiltily at Alfred's eyes in the mirror. "It went badly."

"You said that with the interviewer for the Sorbonne and the interviewer for Oxford too," Alfred pointed out.

"That's because they _all went badly,_ " Bruce said. "I'm no good at this--this being _charming and friendly_ stuff. I say what I mean or I don't say anything." He kicked the back of the seat with absent-minded petulance. "It's hopeless." He stared out the window at a homeless family sleeping in a box, a small child curled up under a tarp. "Anyway, maybe I should be focusing here, not traveling the world."

"Charm can be learned, sir," Alfred pointed out. "It is a skill like any other, no different from fencing or algebra."

Bruce snorted. "It feels different."

"Then I suggest you take it as a challenge." Bruce's eyes lifted to the rear-view mirror in surprise, and Alfred continued: "You're looking for a new challenge, are you not?"

Bruce blinked. "I guess I am."

"I believe human relations are a sufficient challenge for anyone, no matter how talented."

"Hrm." But Bruce was clearly turning over the idea in his mind. He stopped kicking the back of his seat and pulled out a notebook. "Maybe..." he muttered to himself, jotting down notes. He stayed engrossed in his thoughts until the car pulled up in front of the Manor, where Clark Kent was mowing the lawn, tossing up an endless cascade of green as he wheeled the mower back and forth across the wide expanse. He let the mower shudder to a halt as Bruce opened the door, running across the grass.

"Hey," he said, "How'd it go?"

"Awful," Bruce said. "As usual."

Clark shook his head. "Don't be stupid," he said, his voice affectionate. "They'd be crazy to pass you up." He reached out and shoved lightly at Bruce's shoulder. "Stop moping."

Alfred marveled once more that Bruce didn't stiffen or push Clark away as he did anyone else who showed him any sort of physical affection, however disguised as teasing. Instead he aimed a kick at Clark's shins, a sly smile flitting across his face.

Clark danced away and stuck out his tongue. "Poor widdle rich boy Brucie, it must be so hard being brilliant _and_ wealthy," he taunted.

Bruce was trying to look outraged, but his voice revealed stifled laughter. "Shut up, you," he growled, and lunged at Clark, who ran off across the lawn only to get tackled from behind by Bruce. The two boys rolled on the grass, pummeling at each other in mock-battle--mock on Bruce's part, certainly, as Alfred had no doubt that he could have rendered the other boy unconscious in a moment if he were serious--and hurling insults between laughter. Alfred watched them and wondered if Clark Kent were even aware of how much Bruce opened up around him, how the gloom and distance that always seemed to set him apart dissipated around his friend. He wondered if Bruce was aware that, his lack of "charm" notwithstanding, he was the only person who could get bookish, diffident Clark to roar with laughter.

The air was filled with the heavy, sweet scent of fresh-cut grass. Bruce's good suit would be covered with grass stains and probably ripped, but Alfred couldn't bring himself to care.

**: : :**

Bruce was helping Clark trim the hedges when the letter came. He'd gotten in the habit of helping Clark with the gardening when he wasn't studying--not asking to help, just picking up whatever Clark was doing and working alongside him. He enjoyed clipping the hedges, molding nice square shapes from the wild growth, taming nature into something manageable and organized.

"Master Bruce!" Alfred's voice drifted across the grounds. Bruce looked up, pushing sweat-soaked hair off his forehead, to see Alfred standing on the steps, holding an envelope.

"Do you think--" Clark didn't finish the sentence before they were both loping up the lawn to the Manor.

It was a thin envelope, with French stamps in the corner. Bruce hesitated, but Alfred and Clark's expectant looks made it impossible to put it off any longer. He ripped open the envelope, took a deep breath, and unfolded the letter.

It was an acceptance letter to the Sorbonne.

"I _told_ you you'd get in," Clark crowed even before Bruce finished reading it.

"Good work," said Alfred.

Bruce looked at the neatly typed phrases, at Alfred and Clark's beaming faces. They looked pleased and satisfied, and Bruce was ashamed at the brief, unworthy wish that had gone through his head as he opened it: that he would be rejected and could stay here, helping to tend the grounds and studying, forever.

**: : :**

The days were getting shorter. Bruce had been tacitly forgiven for his role in leading Clark into danger and was welcome in the Kent bungalow again. As he buttered another fluffy biscuit he hoped once more that Mrs. Kent never found out they'd been prowling around Chinatown and the waterfront just last evening.

"Are you all packed?" Mrs. Kent refilled his lemonade glass.

"Almost. I don't leave until Thursday," Bruce pointed out, feeling a bit defensive.

"Ma's always packed at least three days in advance," Clark said, laughing.

"It never hurts to be prepared," Mrs. Kent sniffed. "And this is such a long trip, after all. Won't you be coming back for Christmas?"

"He's going to be studying a _lot,_ Ma," Clark said before Bruce could answer. "Even during breaks. But you'll write, won't you?" he said, turning to Bruce. "You'll send postcards?"

"Of course," Bruce said. "And I'll come back as soon as I can." He took a long drink of lemonade, focusing on the tart coolness while he gathered his thoughts. "I was thinking," he said, trying to keep his voice studiously casual, "Clark mentioned you and my mother were planning a moon garden before...well, years ago."

"That's right." Mrs. Kent looked surprised and shot a glance at Clark.

"Do you still have the plans?"

"Of course."

"I was thinking...I talked to Alfred and he agreed the estate had the funds for it, so maybe you could make the moon garden? I think--" Bruce felt his voice falter and cleared his throat, "--I think my mother would have wanted you to finish it."

"Oh, I would...I would love to. That's a very good idea, Bruce." Martha Kent got up from the table hastily and started to clear the dishes away, taking a moment to dab at her eyes with her apron when she thought the boys weren't watching. "I'll get started on it right away."

"You'll make sure to use that statue that's in the storage shed, won't you? The one with the angel and devil?" Bruce wasn't going to admit that he'd slipped into the shed a few times during the summer to gaze at the statue in the moonlight, at the fallen and unfallen angel, their eyes locked on each other, wings curved around each other in elegant lines of either fight or flight. Cool marble beneath his fingers, the delicate tracing of feathers frozen into stone.

"Of course, dear. That was going to be the centerpiece of the whole garden. Oh my, I'll have to start ordering the roses right away," Martha said, clasping her hands together.

"Maybe it will be done by the time you come home again," said Clark. "We'll have it ready for you." He didn't smile, but his eyes were bright as a promise.

**: : :**

Bruce shook hands with Alfred, solemnly. The airport crowds bustled around them. "Have a safe flight, Master Bruce."

"Well, if you think I'm _shaking your hand,_ " huffed Martha Kent as Bruce turned to her, then swept him up in a hug. She smelled of lavender and roses, and Bruce found himself holding her very tightly for a while as she patted his back.

"Well," he said to Clark at the end.

"Well," said Clark.

Bruce felt a sudden helplessness grip him. A handshake was impossible, but a hug seemed...not right, he told himself. A small part of his mind said that if he were to hug Clark he wasn't sure he'd be able to leave at all, but he ignored it resolutely. There didn't seem to be any third option. But he couldn't go without some kind of physical contact between them. That was what friends did on saying goodbye. And Bruce wanted...he needed...

Clark seemed oblivious to Bruce's sudden turmoil. He was pulling something out of his mother's handbag, a slip of waxed paper with something green within it. "I wanted to give you this," he said, holding it out. "It's a sprig of rosemary from our garden. You know--rosemary for remembrance? Just to have...have something with you from home," he said with a sudden, slight stammer to his voice.

Bruce reached out and took the little bit of paper, his fingers closing over Clark's for just a moment. The sprig of rosemary smelled of cool evenings and summery days, salt sea breeze and friendship. He slipped it into the outside pocket of his carry-on bag. "Thank you," he said. "But...I won't need anything to remember you."

Then he turned and went before he could say anything else, anything foolish, hurrying through security and into the wide, blank corridors of the airport, into the wide, blank future.

As Gotham City dwindled outside the windows of the airplane, fading into the late-summer sun, the world lay ahead of Bruce Wayne like a vast road full of promise. His eyes watered as the light reflected off the bay and into his face, and he brushed at his cheeks, turning his face to the window so no one would fuss over him. The scent of rosemary still clung to his fingers.

The future was waiting for him.

And he'd be back someday.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Weeds and Flowers [Podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8138626) by [Mithen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mithen/pseuds/Mithen), [thirdlotusprince](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thirdlotusprince/pseuds/thirdlotusprince)




End file.
